Tartaglia 🐳 Childe (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
misfittoys) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hydrangeabloom2023-10-21 10:29 pm
misfittoys) wrote in hydrangeabloom2023-10-21 10:29 pmMafia AU
[ A tale of two people leading double-lives and the inevitable misunderstandings that follow ]
misfittoys) wrote in hydrangeabloom2023-10-21 10:29 pm
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The rook is the head of the snake— every gut instinct burning within him is almost sure of that. Without a doubt, he will need to be taken out. But is the knight a credible enough warrior to deal with first, lest he pay for that mistake gravely later if he wrongfully ignores him? Decisions, decisions. And without proper information to go on.
Ah, but it is the thrill of the unknown that Tartgalia loves. Jumping headfirst into a situation that has him at the disadvantage. So he does not falter. He does not hesitate.
(And he does not let Zhongli have the upper hand in the battle under the table as that teasing sharp touch recedes. Sneakers aren't really made for this kind of elegant touch that Zhongli so expertly wields, but they'll do in a pinch. He catches Zhongli's foot just at the Achille's heel with the curve of his shoe — slides up and down in a mirror of what Zhongli had done a few moments before but making sure to press a little harder against all those delicately vulnerable places.)
The knight moves to engage the other knight, bold and brave and just out of reach of the army of pawns. ]
You're so serious, Mister Zhongli.
[ As if Ajax wasn't just the same. ]
Could it be that perhaps I have tempered your strategy with boldness?
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And then, under the table, Ajax mirrors his earlier motion, the curve of his sneaker pressing with an intent that is bolder, less refined, yet no less effective. The pressure against his heel is more assertive than teasing, the rough contrast of his trainer grazing over sensitive, vulnerable places. A touch that feels like a declaration in its own right. Zhongli exhales softly, his lips curling into a subtle smile.]
"Tempered me", have you? [His golden eyes lift from the board to meet Ajax’s, his gaze steady but alight with a warm, teasing glint. And if his voice had raised playfully, fondly, before, it drops yet again a fraction, low enough that it feels like a shared secret between them, woven into the space they’ve claimed in this moment.] Perhaps.
Or perhaps, Ajax, you’ve encouraged me to indulge a little.
[Who sounds like a cat who got the cream, here? Zhongli slides his knight into a position that defends the rook and simultaneously opens a line of attack on the other side of the board. Ajax's knight, moving after the other, move out of the way for a dual purpose—keeping the rook free, and another sentinel to prepare for an unseen strike. His queen remains silent, untouched, biding her time, yet her presence looms over the field, a full line aimed at the king on the other side.]
Boldness is very appealing, Ajax. It certainly has its allure. I do admire it. [His foot shifts again, sliding up the length of Ajax’s calf in a deliberate counterstroke, the polished leather smooth against the fabric of Ajax’s trousers. It lingers just long enough, coiled around that leg, for half a second, pulsing.] But it’s the balance of restraint and daring that truly defines a... good performance.
[His tone softens just slightly, an undercurrent of genuine curiosity threading through his words.] Is there ever a moment when you hold back?
no subject
Zhongli has many key pieces at his disposal waiting to be deployed: a bishop (forgettable) and a knight (a worthy adversary) and the rook (his ultimate goal) and the queen (the impossible god to tear down from her throne). His king is not safe and his army divided — how just like the Fatui in their scheming and squabbling. It was the true reason they could not overcome the might of Morax, after all. Morax's whose coordination was so perfect, it was almost nauseating. Morax who inspired leadership instead of paid for it strength, fear, and lofty promises. Tartaglia is a Vanguard, a blade to an organization where such pieces prided themselves on strength and undying loyalty. Long-term strategy has never been his forte nor does he care to make it one.
And so— Ajax picks up the knight even when he knows that beyond his own delusions of grandeur, he is a pawn. And pawns either fight tool or nail to be queened or are felled on the battlefield forgotten in a sea of similar shaped corpses. ]
Never.
[ The knight ignores the other knight. It ignores the rook and the bishop. It hops over two pawns deep into enemy territory to challenge the queen. He cannot defeat her from this position, but now he stands between her and his king, a bishop ready to sweep across the board and end her if she were to take the knight. It's a taunt and a threat all wrapped with a little bow. Perhaps he's worked himself into an unwinnable situation, but even so Ajax will take down Zhongli's best if he has to go down fighting. ]
Half-measures rarely give me what I want.
[ And now to turn to the other "battle". The one that Ajax has been sorely (and pleasurably) losing this entire encounter.
Ajax glances once to the left and to the right, clocking everyone else within the room but this part of the museum is quiet and empty save for the staff and the odd couple and family engrossed in their own little outings. His free hand dips below the table to catch Zhongli's wandering foot by the ankle and hoist it further up until it's halfway up Ajax's calf. Two fingers dip underneath the leather lip of the shoe stroking just under the jut of Zhongli's anklebone with that some bold gentleness that Zhongli had displayed earlier before.
His eyes never leave Zhongli's as unlike the polite consultant, Ajax doesn't let go. Perhaps it is a cruelty — the desire he has to whittle away at Zhongli's composure. To try and keep his attention on him and him alone. ]
But I'm glad you find my boldness appealing even if you shouldn't say such things aloud. It just makes me want to test my limits all~ the~ more~
no subject
He’s been desired before, certainly. Admired, revered, respected—often with some distance, often with hesitation, often with reverence that placed him on a pedestal too high to be reached.
But Ajax does not approach him with careful steps or measured words. He does not hesitate, nor does he handle Zhongli like some untouchable relic of the past. He challenges him, dares him. And, perhaps the most dangerous thing of all, he wants him, unashamedly, and does not care to conceal it.
Zhongli swallows, his throat dry, suddenly wishing for tea to steady himself, to give him something to do with his hands, to keep him from revealing too much of the sudden heat creeping into his expression. But there is no such respite, only the heavy, heated weight of Ajax’s palm still holding firm against his ankle, fingers pressing just under the lip of his shoe with a gentleness that feels at odds with the boldness of his words.
Zhongli's golden eyes flick downward, catching the way Ajax’s fingers linger and how he does not let go. The realization sends a ripple of warmth through him—he enjoys being wanted and pursued this time. He cannot deny it, not when his own body betrays him. His breath is just the slightest bit uneven, and his lips part before he presses them together again in a vain attempt to compose himself.
Instead, his tongue flicks out, wetting his lower lip as he exhales quietly, slowly. He could allow himself this, couldn't he? Just this once? To be courted, to be seduced, despite the world outside, despite the weight of his duty, despite the danger of his life. Here, now, within the sanctuary of this quiet museum, where the only battlefield that mattered was the one between them?
But what of once they left this sanctuary?
The bet curls, coils tight in the space between them like a breath waiting to be drawn. He does not know how Ajax will take it—if the other man, for all his daring, would be the type to pull Zhongli into a darkened corridor out of sight of CCTV and wandering eyes, pressing him against a quiet corner of the world with all the heat and fervor that burns beneath his skin. Or if, for all his boldness, Ajax will surprise him again—choosing instead something prim and deceptively polite, a gentleman, pressing a kiss to his lips with decorum, restrained and measured, as though the tension between them did not exist.
(Which did he prefer? Zhongli is at a loss.)
The thought makes his pulse quicken: would it be so terrible to indulge?]
Ah… [The sound escapes him, softer than he intended.] You speak as though I shouldn’t say such things. But I find it’s difficult not to when you keep earning them.
So. [His fingers move to the board again. A misdirection.
Ajax is so focused on the knight, on the queen, on the looming rook that he has already noticed. But there were always two.
The second rook—forgotten until now—moves at last. The twin to the first. The second half of a whole. Or perhaps the second face of the same entity.
This one does not linger behind, does not wait like its twin. This one strikes. It cuts through the space left open and slides into place in a way that could only be described as inevitable, taking Ajax's rook, nestled in their ranks.
Perhaps, like himself, two identities reside within a single force. One to be seen. One to be wielded in secret.]
No hesitation. No half-measures. There is an appeal to such a conviction. But it is, also, utterly dangerous.
[When he lifts his eyes again, he lets his foot rise higher. The smooth drag of polished leather ascends, lifting the weight from the salesman's grasp for half a second, pressing with intent until the arch of his foot settles just beneath Ajax’s knee. He presses, firm enough to be felt, a silent provocation of his own. Happy to be there.] But there is a beauty to surrender, as well, Ajax.
[In war, surrender is a moment of sharp clarity, the instant one recognizes the inevitability of being overcome. It is the breaking of resistance, not in despair, but in recognition of something stronger, something greater. In some ways, it is the truest form of wisdom—to know when to hold the line and when to let it fall, to recognize when the act of giving in is itself an act of claiming something else. The act of allowing. It is the moment one lets go, not into nothingness, but into someone else. To feel their hands, their mouth, their voice guiding, teasing, commanding—and to choose to follow. It is the soft unravelling, the exquisite loss of tension, the offering of oneself into the hands of another with the trust that it will be returned.]
Would you ever let yourself yield?
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(Ajax was fourteen when he slit his first throat to put bread on the family table. One might have pitied the boy if not for the focus and glee he took in the task. And how not even a fortnight had passed before he did it again.)
Zhongli's embarrassment (though not his reactions) go momentarily overlooked, spared further teasing by Ajax as he mulls over the words that Zhongli has offered him. He should smile good-naturedly here, hint that his submission comes with a price, and try to see what lovely shade of red dusts Zhongli's cheeks before he guesses exactly what that price is. That is what Ajax should do. But something deep within in, something lodged in to the very core of his character, balks at even entertaining such an idea. Yielding was a weakness. Surrender — a death sentence. There was no beauty to be found there. Only failure.
"Dangerous," Zhongli had called his methods or perhaps he was referring to Ajax himself. The glove fits snugly on either hand anyway. And oh, if Zhongli only knew just how dangerous he could be. He'd run, of course. Any sane person would. But the thought is just enough for Ajax to slip on a fraction of his Harbinger mask instead on relying on the ever-pushing charisma of a foreign businessman. ]
I'll take any loss graciously if it's a fair fight. In fact, I find such strength quite charming whether it be in chess or anything else. Yourself included, of course.
[ Because Ajax does feel the press of fine leather pressed just below his knee, a warmth that only fans the flames of his competitiveness. If Ajax was not so wrapped up in victory over this chess match (silly silly Ajax who prefers the losing prize and yet—), he might be tempted to see what he might strip from the other, public space be damned. Or actually— with Zhongli supporting his own weight now, that leaves Ajax's hand free to release the other man's ankle and go exploring. Up up up, he trails two fingers like a blacksmith admiring the edge of a blade. Up until he reaches Zhongli's mid-calf. Because he must know— with as old-fashioned as Zhongli is, should he expect to feel pleasant tautness of sock garters? That would make this all the more fun for Ajax anyway. ]
But I'm afraid it's against my nature to yield. Sorry to disappoint.
[ He sing-songs in a tone that show he's not sorry in the slightest. Without hesitation, his hand once again picks up the knight. Ajax looks Zhongli in the eye then, a grin stretched across his face as he ignores the pair of rooks that have outsmarted him. He ignores the queen who can easily outmatch him. And he ignores the sad forgotten bishop behind him who is now in a terrible position left bereft of allies.
The knight charges even farther into Zhongli's territory, landing with a small thunk exactly four spaces away from one of the two most important pieces on the board. ]
Check. Mister Zhongli.
[ It is as much of a bluff as it is bold. The king can move in any direction to remove itself out of harm's way of the knight, and Ajax is in no better position than he was before. In fact, he might even be worse off. But that does present Zhongli with only one of two options— flee. Or face the knight in combat.
After all, it's the vanguard's duty to lead the charge. And in this task (while the Fatui themselves have been outmatched), Tartaglia himself has never failed. ]
Do you yield?
no subject
He has encountered many like this before—those who charge into battle headfirst, seeking glory, victory, or something they cannot even place a name upon. He has often tempered them, guided them, and reshaped their reckless edges so they did not crumble under the weight of their own passion.
And yet, here, now, with Ajax, he does not want to. He finds himself wanting to watch him burn.
Perhaps that phoenix earring truly holds a meaning. He wants to see how much of this wildfire consumes them both.
Zhongli’s lips curl, amused and—— He watches as Ajax's knight plunges deeper into enemy territory, pressing close, so close. Reckless, desperate, bold. The man has ignored every looming threat, every carefully placed piece, just to force him into a moment of choice. Flee, or fight?
Such single-minded conviction.
Zhongli exhales, slow, measured, though the way he presses against Ajax’s firm grip on his leg betrays him. He can feel the strength in that hold, the rough drag of fingers curling against his calf. It is not a teasing brush now, but something steady, something sure. Ajax is testing, tasting the waters, indulging, taking.
And Zhongli—despite himself—is enjoying being taken.
The corners of his lips quirk as his fingers shift against the board. Not to his queen. Not yet.
But to a pawn.
A simple, unassuming pawn that stands right by the path his own King, a little to the side, waiting, unmoved all this time. And he merely taps on top of it, a note that he will fall into place before the lone knight, cutting off its charge in an almost underwhelming manner.
A sword, beaten by a pitchfork.
The most insignificant piece, and yet the most important.
His voice lowers, soft, indulgent, golden eyes half-lidded with pleasure as he watches Ajax process the warning.]
You are formidable. [But Zhongli's shield is stronger. And then, his fingers brush forward—graceful, precise—as he finally moves his king.
The piece slides one square to the side, the pawn ready to jump onto its place in case the knight is willing to still follow. And by doing so... The queen, beautiful, elegant, has room to cut into enemy territory, sweeping up the bishop that had been protecting Ajax’s king all this time. The real strike. The silent, waiting force that had only now chosen to move.
The true power, held in reserve until the right moment.
And beneath the table, his foot shifts—higher, just slightly, just enough. His calf moves with the drag of Ajax’s touch, and then oh—he feels it. His breath catches for just a moment, golden eyes lowering. Ajax’s fingers, bold and seeking, have found the garter at his knee.
The realization sends a flush creeping up his neck, a quiet thrill humming beneath his skin. He knew Ajax would find it eventually, the man is far too insatiably curious to resist the exploration. But to feel his fingers there, tracing just beneath the strap, pressing into the slight indent it leaves against his skin...
Zhongli does not flinch, but he does lower his gaze. Coy. Indulgent. He hums, a quiet, pleased sound, something almost sinful in its satisfaction, and lets his fingers linger against the edges of the board, as if savoring the moment, drawing it out.]
Your drive is commendable, Ajax. [And he means it. Truly. Ajax does not know the depths of what he has just exposed, of what he has unknowingly revealed. His willingness to fight, to take the impossible route simply because it excites him, because he wants to—how utterly intoxicating.
If only he knew.
If only he knew.
But for now, they are simply two men. Two men playing a game. Two men wanting each other for who they are in this moment.
The outside world does not exist.
Not yet.]
no subject
Flattery will get you everywhere, except when I really really want to win, Mister Zhongli.
[ And he really really wants to win. ]
So I'll take that as you still need a little more convincing. Maybe something to sweeten the deal? Oh! Or maybe you're the type who likes a little assertiveness.
[ In one slow and languid motion, Ajax begins to drag the garter midway down Zhongli's calf. Maybe Zhongli will get to enact that fantasy of Ajax absconding away with him to a shadowed corner where the cameras don't see — all smiles full of teeth as he unravels Zhongli thread by thread to reveal what lies beneath. It's been a while since Ajax has been able to indulge in such a power play against a worthy opponent.
It's been never since the strikes had been traded in desire and denial. And oh, does all of Zhongli's confidence (while incredibly attractive) make Childe want to crack his composure. Just a little bit.
Just to hear his name on Zhongli's lips minus all that carefully packaged decorum.
("Careful now, Ajax. You don't want to spook him on the third date." Says the rational part of his brain which he is paying less and less attention to as the tension between them pulls tauter.) ]
Maybe you want me to leave you with no other alternatives.
[ One might think that Ajax is not even talking about the chess game anymore except for the way that the board has stolen the majority of his focus. Even the teasing touch of Ajax's fingers slipping between bare skin and what has to be very expensive silk is just a distraction. A tantalizingly temptation for the way heat pools in his gut, but a distraction all the same. For even if he becomes less outwardly animated in favor of something more coy, Ajax's eyes dart from one piece to the next on the board in an almost erratic pattern calculating strategies that only he can see.
And so the game continues. With Ajax's wandering fingers stroking Zhongli's calf reverently as he does not slide the garter any lower.
Ajax does not move his knight (unless it is in danger of being removed from the board) for the next turn or many thereafter. It stays in silent vigil, as Zhongli's rook does not a few squares away, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Like a trained sniper pressed low to the roof waiting for the perfect opportunity to take the shot.
Like his father taught him back on the frozen shores of their Snezhnayan home as they huddled around the fishing line in the frigid hours of dawn.
Ajax bides his time with the scattered officers left on his side of the playing field. Small groups of them form up into little squadrons of defense, halting Zhongli's forward momentum. On occasion, a piece is set out to bait to lure the consultant in a very obvious and foolhardy feint. Ever rarer is a feint staged three layers deep so that the logical move results with Ajax's laughter as he triumphantly lines up one of Zhongli's pieces on his edge of the board (always fewer than what Zhongli has managed to capture from Ajax's side).
The outside world does not exist. But neither is this the world where Ajax is but a humble toy salesman.
Queen takes knight. ]
no subject
How deceptive, that something so bright, so warm, could also be so lethal. How his playfulness lapped at the edges of his cold, calculating gaze, like waves against jagged rock, as if it was his own innocence that made him treacherous.
And isn’t that what makes a man truly terrifying?
The casual gamble of a man who does not flinch at risk, who does not hedge his bets. Ajax plays with all or nothing. And he has since the moment he first sat in front of Zhongli on that quiet park afternoon, all boyish charm and too-bright eyes, an open sort of affection, so genuine it almost seems unpracticed, uncalculated, untouched by the world’s cruelty, moving his chess pieces with the same open ease as he threw flirtations as if to say, Here. Have me. Take me. Or don’t. But I won’t hesitate to try anyway.
He knows that true danger is not the blade at one’s throat, nor the weight of a gun pressed firm to the small of one’s back. True danger is the man who smiles as he does it. It is the light in Ajax’s eyes, too bright, too warm, even as his fingers tighten around the edge of control. That is the kind of man who, were he in the same universe as he is, would not hesitate before pulling a trigger.
Zhongli knows better than to believe in idle hands. Knows better than to think that Ajax is unaware of what he is doing. Knows he lets Zhongli notice his gaze flickering to his mouth as though he thinks he is not watching. No, he is making a point. A bold, shameless declaration, a challenge written in the way his fingertips play so idly with the silk of Zhongli’s restraint.
And it is then, with such dangerous thoughts blooming in his mind, that Zhongli shifts his weight ever so slightly, pressing the arch of his foot harder against the inside of Ajax’s thigh.
Ah. What a dangerous thing to test in such a public place.
Zhongli exhales quietly, clears his throat, barely resisting the urge to reach for a cup of tea that isn’t there. His lips feel dry. He wets them absently, pressing them together as if to compose himself as if the subtle heat curling in his stomach could be soothed with anything so simple.
Instead, a quiet chuckle slips from his lips.]
Perhaps, [he muses, tapping a single finger against the board,] I simply enjoy watching you work for it.
[It is a contradiction, really.
Because just as he speaks, he moves the second rook.
The twin to the first. The shadow to its counterpart. A silent piece that had remained unseen, unnoticed, until now. And as it slides into place, Ajax’s king is caught in check.
But by doing so, Zhongli opens a full, unobstructed path towards his own king.
An exposed throat to a blade. A parting of lips to waiting teeth.
It could be a trap.
Or it could be an offering.]
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But he can "see" neither of these things, only relish in the caress of Zhongli's delicate skin under his fingertips and tense his thighs in restraint to keep himself from doing something he would not regret, but Zhongli might.
Oh, the things he would do if they were not in public. How he might slip under the table and award Zhongli for his boldness. To watch his back arch in pleasure and draw all sorts of wonderful sounds from him while not stripping him of a single article of clothing. Or perhaps he might shove the chessboard to the side and pull the consultant to him across the table, capturing with enthusiasm that mouth that he couldn't keep his eyes off of.
And oh, the things he would do if he did not want to win so very very badly. (Disturbing the chessboard was off the table entirely no matter how much the warmth in his gut wanted to do the thinking for him.)
They are fast approaching end game with enough blood in the water for two sharks to circle without knowing what their true target is. What Zhongli offers is both a trap and an offering, Tartaglia knows this. Zhongli plays with the strategies of someone who wields the inevitability of time as just another weapon in their arsenal. Under normal circumstances, Tartaglia would find such (dare he say) long-term planning to be incredibly tedious and borderline boring, just like listening to the Fatui and the Syndicate prattle on about their contract loopholes.
But Tartaglia also sees the way Zhongli invites his recklessness. Beckons him to press the Vanguard's knife against his throat, a hunter's trap waiting to ensnare. But ah, is there really any thrill greater than pulling a victory from the jaws of defeat— its teeth already dug into one's flesh. And watching the look of triumph in your opponent's eyes change to shock. Change to horror.
Or as Ajax knew (or wanted with a longing he could not explain) to watch Zhongli's expression sharpen to admiration. That Ajax had done well. That he had rightfully earned that praising look from Zhongli.
Work for it indeed. ]
How fortunate for both of us then.
[ Ajax's queen steps in front of the queen, obscuring the rook from its intended target. ]
That I also enjoy the thrill of the chase.
[ Two turns. ]
I hope you find it to your standards, xiansheng.
[ If his king could evade Zhongli's onslaught for just two turns— ]
no subject
The moment when Ajax’s mind fractures between the logic of the game and the weight of their indulgence. The idea of what could be, if not for the constraints of their setting. A world without a table between them, without a chessboard dictating their careful dance. Would he pull him closer? Would he claim him with the same boldness he has wielded since the start? Would he take his victory not in chess, but in the way Zhongli’s lips part beneath his own?
And how fascinating, that Zhongli lets himself consider it.
The warmth of Ajax’s thumb, now skimming on his ankle, and he wonders if he'd ever kiss it. The heat of his body, tense and waiting, as Zhongli presses just a fraction harder, his foot a slow, deliberate weight against Ajax’s thigh.
A reminder that he is watching him.
And Ajax—
Ah.
He had suspected as much before, but now there is little doubt: Ajax does not play with the expectation of winning. He plays for the thrill. For the risk. For the moment the game turns in his favor or against it, and he gets to claw it back, just to feel it slip between his fingers again, to chase after it. The eternal unsatisfied. Never sated.
Ajax’s voice is honey-thick, smooth and self-assured, but Zhongli can see the effort behind it. The tension beneath the confidence as his fingers finally move—the queen glides across the board onto a block-challenge-invitation. Zhongli hums, the amusement curling warm behind his lips.
So he is pulling out formalities, now.
What a wonderfully dangerous game.
Two turns. He's seen this play. He knows that is what Ajax is banking on. If he can keep his king moving for just two more turns, then victory will be his. It is, still, a gamble. A high-stakes one, considering how Zhongli has already laid out the trap. But this is exactly what he's come to admire about Ajax, that he looks like a man who'd grin with a blade at his throat. Foolish.
But what of everything else?
Would Ajax ever allow himself to simply enjoy what Zhongli had to offer? Or would he tussle and wrestle for dominance each time, all bright teeth and burning want, pushing until neither of them could breathe? Would he fight for it every single time?
Zhongli could end it here.
He lets one more piece move instead.
His fingers drift, trailing with a smooth motion before nudging his knight forward. In one stroke, Zhongli has offered the king an escape route, but it comes at a price. A single open line leading straight to the waiting jaws of his final rook.
The other unremarkable dark pieces on Zhongli’s side have, until now, seemed harmless. Small pawns, scattered across the battlefield like forgotten remnants, inconsequential to the grander scheme of things. And yet, with the shift of his knight, the landscape of the board turns in an instant. What had seemed innocent now bristles with hidden intent, every minor piece aligned into an unexpected threat.
A single pebble thrown at a giant’s eye can bring him to his knees. A whisper, carried across a kingdom, can ignite a revolution. A modest, unassuming toy salesman can entice a dragon, as if his very bones are spun from gold.
And then, he reaches for Ajax’s playing hand, brings it closer, his own fingers twining with his, slow, deliberate. His eyes are half-lidded, gold smoldering with something undeniable, something that settles deep in his chest like the secret he can't speak of. Presses his lips, soft and unhurried, against the back of his own hand. Not quite kissing Ajax's, his warm breath skimming only as he lets out a sigh. He lingers, just for a breath, just long enough for the warmth of his mouth to linger, before his gaze lifts again, heavy-lidded, knowing.
What a contradiction he must be.
He could see it now, couldn’t he?
The way all those innocuous little things have turned into weapons.
And yet, the pathway for his own king? Still open, seemingly defenseless. An acknowledgement in the silence, a provocation that needs no words: 'come catch me'.
And then, as if he has done nothing at all, as if this moment isn’t curling into something thick and inescapable, he murmurs against his own skin.]
Check, Ajax.
no subject
The press of Zhongli's sole against his thigh, inviting Ajax to indulge more. The Harbinger savors this scandalous contact of skin to skin between them. Would he kiss it? Yes— preposterous as that seems. (Who loses their cool over a bare ankle anyway?!) Yes and he'd do a dozen more things to every inch of Zhongli's body. He wants to see this man in the throes of passion. Wants to see him overwhelmed. But not in his usual blazing rush of glory, no. Perhaps for the first time, Ajax catches a glimpse of understanding of those who favor their strategies and intrigue over the crisp decisive results of action. For the only thing more enticing than seeing Zhongli undone by Ajax's own hand is the thought of that slow realization dawning in those beautiful golden eyes as Ajax careens them both of that cliff, Zhongli helpless to prevent it and not wanting to anyway.
Ugh! Distracting. This is much too distracting!
Which makes it hard to pinpoint just what is triggering the sense of unease that tingles at the corner of his senses. Zhongli's move is not incorrect, but it's not quite right either. And it's not because it's the thrill of something reckless or unexpected. No, it's— it's— an offering? a compromise? another layer to their interactions that are becoming so complex, Ajax is not sure what is supposed to be tactics and what is supposed to be innuendo anymore? Impossible to tell. But he hasn't lost yet, which means the only path forward is well— forward. Forward with a charming grin and the sharp edge of a blade. Surely it will work out in the end. Somehow it always had for him.
The press of Zhongli's shoe and the warmth of Zhongli's breath ghosts over the back of his hand. He needs that hand to continue the game, but is too selfish to even think about disentangling his hand from Zhongli and his oh so intoxicating attention.
So Ajax doesn't allow Zhongli's hand to drop his as moves them both across the board. Together their fingers find the slick acrylic of his queen's many-pronged crown. (He doesn't trust getting close to the rook. Either of them. He doesn't know why. But instinct that has helped him claim victory many a time demands it.) Together they slide the queen wildly across the board almost as deep into the heart of enemy territory as Ajax's own knight is just to eliminate Zhongli's knight. It's reckless and bold. Surely his queen will be eliminated in the next few turns for such a move (if it lasts that long. It cannot last that long if Ajax is meant to seize victory). But the queen stands proud and tall and unintimidated surrounded by her enemies, facing the king. And her knight lurks in the shadows behind him, waiting to ensnare him as he falls into the abyss. ]
Oh. You're being a little bit naughty, aren't you? I can play that game too, you know.
[ It's now Ajax's turn to pull Zhongli's hand to his lips. But unlike the coy teasing that proved to be incredibly effective against Ajax, the vanguard unashamedly nips at one his knuckles like a misbehaving puppy before soothing the away the pink indents of his teeth with his thumb. Not a kiss so not breaking the rules of their little engagement. But oh does he so not want to apply even the slightest amount of brakes to their escalation. ]
Check, xiansheng.
no subject
Technically, they do not break the rules, and yet his skin feels the edge of Ajax's teeth so vividly. It is not the soft graze of lips on a ring, or the careful, curated affection of courtship, but the sharp, instinctive nip of something wild. Something unruly. Something that wants.
And wants him.
The faintest gasp catches at the back of his throat, too quiet to be called a sound, more like the flicker of a candle in a still room. His lashes flutter low over gold-lit eyes, and he watches as Ajax soothes the indentations of his bite with his thumb, as if marking the spot only to later worship it. A shiver curls down his spine from the sheer audacity of being wanted like this. It is… not what he is used to. He has been admired, yes. Desired, even. Revered and feared and bowed to. But not pursued.
And not with this much teeth.
Zhongli swallows. He is composed, of course he is. Composure is all he has, at times. But even that feels threadbare around the edges now, tugged loose like the garter Ajax’s fingers still stroke with maddening reverence. One touch, two. Still there. Still teasing. Still claiming.
Ajax’s queen has surged forward now, taking the knight that had opened the way. It’s a brilliant move—impulsive, devastating. The kind that carves into Zhongli’s strategy and leaves a wound. The kind of move that should be punished.
Instead, it is… fascinating.
Because Ajax lays himself bare, as though he has nothing to lose. Because he walks into a trap, knowing, and does so anyway with that ever-gleaming grin and a flourish that makes Zhongli feel a little drunk. He calls him xiansheng like it’s a shared joke. Like he knows what the title means. Like he might peel it from his skin with the same care he might unfasten the clasp of his belt.
His fingers tighten, just slightly, against the younger man’s, entwined as they are, and he allows his own gaze some respite from the beautiful coppered and brilliant man sitting across from him, like a trap Zhongli is finding himself wanting to be fully encased by.
Who's the hunter, truly? ]
You should be careful, [he murmurs, voice low, the words almost lost to the hush of the gallery around them.] Those who play with dragons often mistake the warmth of their breath for something safe.
[The bishop strikes.
It is not the most logical move on the board by far. There were easier targets, more immediate counters, cleaner paths to safeguard the king he has so openly left exposed. But for once, Zhongli does not do it for the sake of logic. He does it to watch Ajax react.
Ajax’s rook, proud and loyal and so rarely out of position, vanishes under the sweep of his bishop like it had never been there at all. It is, in all aspects, an elegant capture.
It does not protect Zhongli's king. It does not block Ajax’s queen. It leaves the heart of his defenses threadbare, veiled only by the illusion of caution. A gesture of strength that, when pressed, offers no resistance.
And yet, how it sings.
Because the rook was a threat, a shadow, a witness to all the traps he'd laid. Zhongli takes it not for necessity, but because it hurts. Because it matters. Because it sends a message, a blade pressed flat to skin, not to cut, but to make its weight known.
And still, the path remains open. The king is untouched. Unfleeing. Unmoved.
Zhongli watches Ajax from beneath the sweep of his lashes, gold eyes slow and hooded, as if this isn’t war, but a study. Every line of Ajax's body is wired with tension that he wears like silk, deceptive in its softness, and every bit as dangerous.
Zhongli can feel the slight shift in his grip, the subtle change in his stillness. He can sense the way his focus flickers, ever so slightly, between board and thigh, between threat and temptation. As though keeping himself tethered to something he hasn’t decided yet whether he wants to destroy or to worship.
The bishop falls into place with a delicate, hollow tap.
Zhongli exhales. The kind of sound that trembles just beneath the threshold of notice, but feels louder than thunder in the silence between them. His thumb glides once across the knuckles of Ajax’s hand, still held, still offered.
Zhongli sees it. Feels it. Knows the next step, the final step, is not his.
And yet, he doesn’t look afraid.
He looks like he’s waiting.
For the teeth. For the triumph. For the fall.
Perhaps this is what it means to be caught.
To want to be.]
Go on, [he says softly, eyes glittering as the last of the bishop’s echo fades between them.] Let’s see if you can truly reach me.
no subject
Ajax could giggle — does giggle— at how absolutely endearing Zhongli is. While still a novice about the finer points of Liyue culture, Ajax does understand how very particular they are about their dragons. Wise and benevolent as they are just and decisive. No dragon would ever look down at Tartaglia and see him as anything but a threat to order and stability. And Tartaglia would never see a dragon as anything but a notch under his belt as an impossible challenge defeated by his own hand. Only good people (or those that thought they were good) would find refuge near a dragon's maw. May their sins be weighed accordingly.
But ah, that was Zhongli's charm point, was it not? Here he was courting a creature with fangs without the slightest sign of self-preservation. Bold but not reckless. Exactly the kind of person who gets trapped in the dark with the Vanguard of the Harbingers and thinks a serving tray will save him.
Perhaps he should be worried about his own safety first. ]
Wise words, but actually— I have this feeling you don't want me to be careful at all. That you enjoy the thrill of the hunt, matched in such a way that one false step and the hunter becomes the hunted.
[ For the game is only a means to an ends, a thin veneer spread across the rising need to push at the boundaries. To test oh so carefully that which bends and avoid that which breaks. Zhongli's walls are closing in but that only works if they catch Tartaglia in time before he strikes.
Which is why Zhongli's next move is so bewildering.
There is a slightly puzzled expression on Ajax's face as his own rook topples. Surely there was significance of that or perhaps this was simply a quirk of Zhongli's — to favor his own rooks above else and jealously eliminate those of his opponents. Surely, there is a story there, but one for another time as the final spring of Tartaglia's trap has been sprung.
Hands still intertwined, Ajax reaches for his queen again and in another bold movement, she dances across the length of the board to stand toe to toe with Zhongli's noble king. Strategically placed on his unprotected flank, none of Zhongli's other pieces are able to strike her down. Only the king can move to defeat her.
Except.
Except—
Should Zhongli's king vanquish Ajax's queen, the knight sits patiently, lance poised to strike down the king right where he would stand. But ah, isn't that how it always is? The Tsaritsa always sends him out first— reconnaissance she claims as the bodies pile up around him. He never questions her. Never questions the mission. And only when he has entrenched himself deep in enemy territory does she confidently stride down those halls, bathed in the beauty and confidence of frost and white. And why shouldn't she be? When she knows her Vanguard is never too far away with his sights trained on the final target. Her final target.
To topple the king. His loyal blade at their throat. ]
Checkmate, Zhongli-xiansheng.
[ The words spill of his tongue like ambrosia, sweet and far too rich for his usual tastes (except that is Zhongli who is ever proving to be the exception). Now to claim the spoils of his hard work and a job well done.
Ajax's thumb skims Zhongli's ankle one last time as he spares the briefest of thoughts of returning the consultant's clothes to their former prim and proper state, garter hoisted up midcalf to stretch taut a clean and smooth pull of fabric. But no, it's much more enticing to leave him disheveled in ways that only Ajax knows about. It will be his little secret to watch to see if Zhongli's straightens his attire or enjoys the touch of personal chaos Ajax has bestowed upon him.
(And oh, what other imperfections could he leave under Zhongli's clothing that would be their little secret.)
Ajax lets go of Zhongli's ankle, allowing the other's press of shoe upon his thigh to either keep that position or relax onto something a bit more family friendly. This leaves both of his hands free to capture Zhongli's hand between both of his own, restless fingers stroking both palm and back of his hand alike as he raises it between them. ]
And I believe the wager is that now I'm allowed to do whatever I want with you.
[ Two fingers find the dip of the pulse at Zhongli's wrist. ]
Did you still find those terms acceptable?
no subject
Checkmate.
(He doesn't adjust his garter)
Zhongli lets his lashes lower, gold eyes flickering to the boy—no, the man—before him. And he thinks, not for the first time, how fascinating it is, a simple toy salesman, Bright, eager, bold, too forward to be merely naive. Too sharp to be merely lucky. And yet, there is something wild about him, something that does not belong in the orderly, sunlit world of ordinary men.
It thrives in the dark, in bladed ambition bloody and ruined loyalty, in the damp and dark and narrow cobblestones of Liyue, where dragons stir and kings fall and the underworld leaves a long-lasting, aching burn. Zhongli knows the weight of that mark all too well, and for a fleeting, aching second, he thinks: Ajax would have been a wonderful recruit.
He would have made a brilliant piece on the board, a knight without hesitation, a rook that struck without mercy, a queen if only given the chance to build his dominion. He has all the makings of someone who could rise; burning too hot and too fast, perhaps, but beautiful in how he would blaze.
But Zhongli also knows what happens to men like that once they are pulled into the riptide of his world down to the marrow of his bones: the bright ones burn quickest. The fierce ones drown the deepest. The eager ones are crushed under the very weight of the things they try to hold.
It is a shame and a blessing, Zhongli thinks quietly, wistfully, that this stranger-this charming, terribly dangerous stranger—may never know how close he has come to the edge. For all his reckless brilliance, for all his bold, flashing smiles and fierce pursuit, he is still free. Zhongli would not wish to take that from him. Not even if Ajax offered it up willingly.
Zhongli exhales slow and soft, a tendril of heat escaping his lips. Under the table, he lets the arch of his foot glide one last, slow stroke along Ajax’s thigh before withdrawing, leaving behind the ghost of a touch, a memory imprinted on denim and skin alike.]
I did. [He meets Ajax’s gaze, voice both low as it is warm, çole silk as it is taut between them.] And I still do.
As agreed, [a cant of his head, conceding. And yet, his pulse thrums like the wings of a hummingbird.] I am yours to claim.
no subject
Ajax's heart trills at the realization even as he silently chides himself that perhaps he went a little too far in their little game. Ajax the toy salesman, after all, was only competitive enough to be boyishly charming while Tartaglia was the one who pursued victory as if it was the only taste that could sate his hunger. Tartaglia — who neatly categorized everyone as either ally (reluctant or not), worthy opponent, ignorable weakling, or something to be protected. And while family made up the lion's share of the last category, he had unknowingly carved a place there for charming Mister Zhongli as well. A performance of normalcy even if there was no room for such in the life of a Harbinger. The consultant was a civilian and an unfortunately clueless one who was blind to danger even as it lurked in the shadows around him.
So someone to protect — Zhongli should be, but oh Ajax would be lying to himself if he was not deeply attracted to the fact that Zhongli effortlessly matched (and sometimes outmatched) him in the most thrilling ways. Worthy opponent indeed.
But ah, how to chase that high on Ajax's terms. ]
Then I'll claim that kiss.
[ Fingers detangle from each other as Ajax reaches to cup Zhongli's face in his hands, thumbs brushing over the curve of his cheeks as he leans across the table. The remaining chess pieces on the board scatter under the sudden movement, some threatening to teeter off the table entirely.
(Ajax makes certain to topple both of Zhongli's rooks in the process.) ]
And your hand as we indulge in each other's company for the rest of this museum tour.
[ A smaller but no less important victory. For how much sweeter would this date be if in addition to being serenaded by the soft molten tones of Zhongli's voice as he examined each exhibit, if Ajax was also allowed the warmth of their palms pressed together? Imagine the thrill of pressing against Zhongli's side as he leaned in to more closely inspect the plaque or the display.
Claim— that had been the terms of the agreement. And certainly Ajax planned to stretch his winnings for all they were worth. But on the other side of that coin was the desire to show Zhongli off, or perhaps more accurately, show the world that Zhongli was with him and he was with Zhongli. Even if it was only technically a second (third?) date. ]
And whatever comes after that or during that, well—
[ Ajax's breath ghosts over Zhongli's lips, his own curled in a teasing grin. ]
I like to play things by ear, you know. Keeps you on your toes.
[ The inside of Ajax's sneaker catches the edge of Zhongli's dress shoe again, warmth bubbling up again in Ajax at their little secret of scuffed polish and unfastened garters. And he closes the distance to capture his well-earned first kiss. It errs a tad on the side of eagerness, Ajax already pressing to part the seam of Zhongli's lips, but one cannot doubt the sincerity of his growing infatuation. ]
no subject
It was meant to be a diversion. A game. An indulgence he could afford, precisely because he had grown too old, too heavy, too wise to be moved.
And yet.
The younger man's breath kisses his lips even before the kiss itself arrives, and Zhongli feels something in him tilt, buckle, crack at the edges. His breath stills in his throat, a sudden hitch, an almost imperceptible widening of his gold-lit eyes, as if caught between instinct and surrender.
The chess pieces clatter from the table with all the gracelessness of an avalanche, an uncouth, unrepentant symphony of chaos in the hallowed quiet of the museum, a place built for reverence, for restraint, for stillness, and Zhongli does not so much as glance at them.
Let the relics fall. Let the painted saints and watchful marble gods see him for what he is: a man, stripped of duty for one blinding, reckless moment, and wanting.
Ajax kisses him like the world is ending. Not a careful, courteous kiss. No hesitation. The kind that tears down walls, that leaves bruises in the marrow, that carries with it the taste of hunger and the promise of ruin. It is unpolished, a little wild around the edges, the way the first rains lash against parched earth after a long drought.
And Zhongli has spent years swallowing down the ache of lost brothers, of dead comrades, of cold beds and colder mornings, and he feels himself shudder against it.
He had not touched, had not been touched, in so long.
The kiss finds him open, breathless, lips parted from the sheer shock of it, and when Ajax presses closer, Zhongli leans into him without thinking, the way a starving man leans into the first taste of spring. There is something scandalous in how easily he gives. Something decadent in the way his hands tighten ever so slightly over Ajax’s, a trembling admission that he is not resisting. That he does not want to.
He kisses back with a gravity that belies the stillness of his body, a slow, devastating slide of mouth against mouth, surrender dressed up in silk and smouldering gold. He tastes heat, reckless youth, the burn of something untempered, and it shakes him to his foundations in ways no assassin's blade, no soldier’s betrayal ever had. Zhongli had lived long enough to know that indulgence comes at a price, and he simply no longer cared.
(Or perhaps he cared too much, and that was the tragedy of it.)
When Ajax finally draws back, just a breath apart, the world feels too loud, too bright, too small to contain what is now crackling between them. Zhongli's gaze, heavy-lidded, flushed with something perilously close to wonder, lingers on Ajax’s mouth as if mapping the shape of the loss.
The museum remains hushed around them, scandalized in its silence.
He clears his throat before he even tries to speak. Because he knows his voice will stutter in its effort if he doesn't, untethered and loose.] Lead the way, then. [He holds out his hand for Ajax to take.]
no subject
On the surface, Zhongli was a poised, elegant, and well-off individual. He was learned in the ways that hinted at privilege but kind in those that often resulted from loss and hardship. He was sharp-witted and silver-tongued yet somehow adorably clueless in ways that made Ajax want to scream.
As for their kiss, Ajax had expected one of two things to happen. The first was that perhaps Zhongli was inexperienced — how else was it possible that this man could be available?— and Ajax would have to slowly warm up the man to all the wonderful things he wanted to do to him. (This hypothesis is immediately rejected at the first press of their lips where it is quite obvious that Zhongli is very experienced. Enough that a thrill of excitement shoots its way up Ajax's spine). The second was that Zhongli was indulging the affections and being chased by someone — that someone being Ajax— who loved nothing more than pushing boundaries and seeing what he could get away with. (The other thrill is that Zhongli seems just to be interested in this as he is and oh, how wonderful that is.)
There is something else there, though, underneath all the layers of want and physical attraction. Something not quite holding back, but something that is tempered. Something that is cautious. Something that makes Ajax thinks that perhaps someone has hurt Zhongli before, leaving him wanting but also guarded. Just the thought of it makes his temper and determination flare instinctively.
Zhongli was a man that deserved to be spoiled. And if Ajax was the best man for the job, then well—
Ajax takes Zhongli's hand, eyes never leaving his as he laces their fingers together and pulls the consulatant to his feet.
— Spoiled, he would be.
As for their scandalized audience, Ajax offers them a sheepish grin as he tousles the back of his hair with his free hand. He bends down to pick up the scattered pieces on the marble floor (stubbornly not letting go of Zhongli's hand and also not letting him help) as the board becomes an unorganized pile of chess pieces. He turns back to Zhongli with a grin when he is finished: ]
Chess was imported from Mondstadt, right? Before it started taking off everywhere. Let's go see what strategy games people played in Liyue before that.
[ And so, Ajax deliberately leads Zhongli further into the less crowded parts of the museum, swinging their joins hands together slightly as he makes sure their shoulders are pressed together. As they walk, even though his smile and gait are casual easy things, Ajax's eyes dart quickly through their surroundings, clocking every person and camera that has them in their field of vision. ]
no subject
He keeps his head inclined slightly toward their path, but his eyes, sharp, gilded things, steal sidelong glances at Ajax, drinking him in with a hunger he can no longer mask. The pulse at his wrist throbs where their hands are joined, a steady, fluttering testament to the part of him that still remembers how to long.
The museum grows quieter as they enter an older wing: the air heavier, thicker with the ghosts of centuries, the careful hush of reverence pressed into every carved stone and lacquered scroll. It is a good place to hide things. Feelings. Memories. They pass a collection of strategy relics, simple boards etched into cracked stone, pieces carved of bone and jade, worn smooth by hands long returned to dust. Ancient games. Ancient wars.
Zhongli pauses.]
This game, [he says quietly,] was once played with stones taken from riverbeds. No two pieces identical. A game of conquest, yes, but mostly of patience and inevitability. It was said that the true measure of a player’s strength was not how many pieces they claimed [his thumb brushes absentmindedly across Ajax’s knuckles, a slow, grounding gesture] but how skillfully they allowed losses.
[He shifts slightly, the fabric of his coat brushing Ajax’s side, a whisper-soft contact that feels, somehow, intimate.]
Those who feared loss clutched their stones too tightly. They choked their own strategies. But those who understood let their rivers flow. They carved new paths through the wreckage.
[He does not need to say it aloud: I have lost before. I have let go before. I know the shape of grief and the taste of ashes.
Because there is something reckless and radiant about the boy beside him, something that reminds Zhongli of younger days when he was not only a boss, not only a dragon, but a man who could reach for what he desired without weighing the cost in blood and silence.
The ache in his chest is a sweet, terrible thing.
He glances down at their joined hands, watching the way his fingers fit against Ajax’s, like two stones plucked from the same river, worn smooth where they press together.]
There is a kind of victory, too, in knowing which pieces you are willing to lose.
[He does not clarify whether he means the game or himself.
He suspects, in the end, it will make little difference.]
no subject
And he was doing so well, too, hah! maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was doing awful, but that little amount of restraint and resolve crumpled under the weight of one very small and yet momentous realization.
Zhongli wants this too (wants it more possibly than Ajax himself).
Ah, but then there is the talk of loss, and that disconcerting feeling returns. Is there a price to pay for fanning the spark that has ignited between them? Ajax thinks not— despite knowing how risky it is to draw a civilian into his gravity. (And a native of Liyue at that. One of Morax's own.) But Zhongli seems to think that paying some price is an inevitability and not in the way the Land of Contracts preaches fairness and equal exchange.
Ajax turns to Zhongli, brushes a kiss to his temple at the touch to his knuckle. His grin is probably tangible as the loose bits of their clothes brush together in a soft swish of fabric and almost mockery of what they could be doing now instead of looking at worn stones used to kill time by people who were long gone from this world. ]
Sounds like a game I would be terrible at.
[ He laughs against Zhongli's skin, tilting his body just enough so he can mouth at the shell of Zhongli's ear with the camera none the wiser. He guides Zhongli not so gently then, pulling him to take a half dozen more steps that draw them farther and farther for that watchful blinking light. ]
I don't like to lose anything.
no subject
The press of Ajax’s mouth against his temple is warm, fleeting, scandalously familiar, and it stuns Zhongli more effectively than any blade, any bullet ever could. His breath catches, a small, private gasp that curls tight behind his teeth.
He is so used to being manhandled into safety by those sworn to him: Xiao’s sharp, no-nonsense hands pulling him from crumbling stone, Ping's gentle but firm shepherding when he forgets his limits, even Ganyu’s rare, trembling grip when things turned too dire. Ajax’s touch is no shield or command, only the bright, impulsive pull of someone who simply wants him closer. Wants him for the sake of wanting. No contracts. Only that reckless, singular hunger, glittering and terrible and sweet, and Zhongli lets himself be guided with startling ease, almost stumbling in his steps from the sheer unthinking willingness of his body to follow.
Their shoulders brush again, firmer this time, Ajax’s body warm and solid at his back as he guides him a few steps away from the blinking, mechanical gaze of the security cameras.
There is something terribly delicious in it. The motion softens him from the inside out, the dangerous, private little smile of a man who has survived long enough to know what he is risking and is willing to wager it anyway.]
You seem to have a rather competitive streak, [Zhongli murmurs, gold eyes bright with an indulgent, affectionate glimmer as he lets Ajax pull him along.] One I had not been aware of.
no subject
[ Ajax laughs as if it was no big deal.
As if it wasn't that competitive streak those helped him rise through the ranks of the Fatui until he was the youngest Harbinger among Her Majesty's trusted. That same competitive streak that made him turn his back on years of dusty school books and their promise of an office job when his ailing father grew too sick to put bread upon the table. As if it wasn't the catalyst for what made Ajax slide into the seat opposite of Zhongli that day on his way back from dropping Teucer off at school— for what was more depressing than a challenger without a worthy opponent.
But still, he knows how off-putting it can be to the people around him. There's a reason on diplomatic missions he has to be babysit by an elder Harbinger. There's a reason they send him off on the craziest of missions and still they remain incredulous when he returns alive after each and every one. There's a reason why his parents politely take the money offered and don't ask too many questions.
The red light of the security camera is now hidden from their view while Tartaglia does the mental calculation of where the other three closest ones are. Not in line of sight. They're ghosts in the system now, perfectly placed out of the vision of those who might be spying.
If he were on a mission, this is the point where the target would disappear either to be hand-delivered to the Tsaritsa herself or never to be seen by anyone ever again.
(Mister Zhongli really should be worried about the company he keeps.) ]
That's just the natural conclusion of being the middle child.
[ Ajax doesn't quite look at Zhongli— not directly anyway as he peers at him out of the corner of his eye. He tries to force himself to relax. Be chill about this, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Tonia chides him in his head after he had gushed one too many times about the handsome stranger he'd met at the park. While Mister Zhongli may be fond of Ajax (just as Ajax is endeared by him in return), Tartaglia's level of competitiveness was not everyone (or anyone's) cup of tea. ]
Does it bother you? I can tone it down.
[ Ajax squeezes the hand in his almost apologetically. ]
I guess the prize was just too tempting that I got a liiiiiittle carried away. Aha!
no subject
Middle child, he said. Zhongli lets the phrase turn over in his mind, warm and strange. He wonders about Ajax’s family, the shape of it, the pressure of it. He can imagine it now: not in clear shapes, but in tone and impression. A busy household. Noise. Expectations. Maybe even absence, heavy in the rooms between. The kind of home that carves a man into someone so hungry for wins, and still so good at offering laughter like it costs him nothing.
There’s a moment where Zhongli thinks of saying something tender, something careful.
But then Ajax squeezes his hand and throws in that last line, breathless and apologetic and entirely too charming for his own good, and Zhongli only laughs softly, golden and low, eyes crinkling at the corners as he leans in just enough to brush his shoulder back against Ajax’s.]
Not bothered, no. Just, ah, pleasantly surprised.
[His tone is gentle, almost musing, but there’s a glint behind his eyes that says he’s enjoying this more than he lets on. He tilts his head slightly, as if studying Ajax anew.]
I see. Truly, like a middle child, you were quick to tease me for being the eldest.
[He shifts closer, casually, sinfully, until the scent of cologne and museum dust hangs between them. His lips hover by Ajax’s ear, the space between them tightening like a held breath.] Curious. Clearly, I haven’t tempted you enough, then.
[He pulls back just enough to meet Ajax’s gaze again, eyes rich and amused, his expression unreadable save for the small smile playing at the corners of his lips.]